I dare say it’s no leap to suggest that our first encounters with sex were with our own hands. No wonder we find hands so erotic. At first it was dark, secretive. We sinned alone in our beds. Later, after the right hormones kicked in, it could happen on a sleepover with friends or relatives, stimulated by apocryphal stories, a Playboy in the left hand, cock in the right. Sometimes we’d give each other hand jobs. One time a boy suggested we should all fuck each other’s backsides, kinda like a daisy chain. He told us he and his cousins did it all the time. That never happened with us because everybody wanted to be the last guy in line, emmm … in the rear, so to speak. Perhaps these childhood diddlings served as part of an unconscious search for our respective positions on the Kinsey chart.
My first sexual encounters with girls, also hand-oriented and executed, the way those clumsy boy-fingers twirled in early girlfriends’ panties. How hard their pubic bones were down there, like an upside-down shelf with a soft, silky, drippy place underneath. The way a finger slid into the warmth while we cuddled in the back seat of a fogged-up car on a chilly night. My hand learned how wet girls were down there. Were they that way all the time? Of course it took several girls, several vaginas before I realized they weren’t all the same, nor were the fuzzy things always wet. It was just something that happened after making out for a while.
Seems our hands have eyes, compared to our sexual organs. Sure, that’s a whole complicated area down there, and the clitoris or tip of a cock is as sensitive as any part of the body. But detail is difficult for a guy to feel out with his dick. Our tactile fingers reveal every contour, every mysterious nook and cranny inside and outside a woman, like a kind of sex-Braille. I found with my fingers that I could picture in detail what it was like inside. How it felt. A hard cock just slips right by. Of course both parties can twist and turn, adjusting how the thing wags around in there, but the dick doesn’t curl. It can’t go in and explore, not like fingers can.
Mmmm … There’s a pocket on each side in here. Can I brush her cervix with a finger? She pushes against me when I curl up under her pubic bone. Wow. How to thumb her clitoris from the outside, pushing on that pebbly part behind with my fingertips.
“More pressure,” she says. “Go slow.”
“Feeling them up,” we called it.
They’d respond, or not, to our ministrations. Some things they liked. Some things not so much. It was how we learned. We learned the ways in which girls were different, not only different in their anatomy, but in what they thought was important. We learned that something essential to one girl wasn’t necessarily the same of another. Imagine that! Every one made my fingers smell different. How much we learned by hand.
Girls would almost always jerk a guy off before fucking him. Sometimes, a woman sucks a man’s fingers as a signal. We worked it out, hand in hand.
I was well into my twenties before I had sex with a woman more experienced than I. Some came on to me, but most of the women I found attractive had to be seduced, coaxed into what I seemed to always have in mind. Sex, of course, was at the top of that list.
I knew I was oversexed at a young age. Hell, early on, I had the blisters to prove it. (Wasn’t there something about genital sores in sex-ed?) Working at myself any time I had the chance, my hand became my most dependable girlfriend for years. I know lots of teenagers play with themselves, and many suspect they fool around with it too much, but frequency seems to dwindle when people get older.
For me, the wanking never stopped. Now pushing 70, I still appreciate a good one, by my own hand or by others. Whether by surprise when she says: “Let me just do this, this time, baby. I want to see you come.”
Or, by myself, in the bathroom, at some place where I worked, after waiting on a woman whose demeanor gave me a hard on.
Those twisty, twirly, knob-scrub surprises a lover offers. That exact spot where we hold or caress our organs, the speed and manner of manipulation adjusts itself by instinct. The intensity varies concurrent with our needs in the moment. Hands allow us to know ourselves, to ‘see’ our sexual longings and satisfactions with our hands’ observations. Nobody knows us like we know ourselves in that regard. That and our imaginings.
I offer a true story. Names have been changed to protect the guilty:
Lynne and I worked at a North Beach restaurant. We always screwed around in the back room. I’d tell her my dick was out under the apron so she’d tug it when we passed in the kitchen. Or she’d say she’d worn no panties and I’d slip a hand under her waitress uniform to find out first hand. We never washed up after.
We were at her place one night, fooling around on the sofa, kissing, petting, hands in each other’s business. She whimpered so gently I didn’t know what happened. Then she was sobbing.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
“Yeah? … Wow. Why cry?”
“I-I’ve never … Not with another person before.”
Then, a noise. Lynne’s sleepy-eyed roommate stumbled from a bedroom. Jessica had been burned in a fire so terrible her father had died in the conflagration. Her plastic surgery was now to the point where she could once again go out in public. She hadn’t had sex in years.
“What’s wrong?” Jessica glared, thinking I’d hurt her friend.
“He made me come,” sighed Lynne.
I was flabbergasted. I’m a libertine, but they were such very good friends. What came next bowled me over.
“Jess?” said Lynne. “I bet he could do you, too.”
It turned out to be one of the greatest nights of my life.
According to friends who knew Jessica before the accident, she turned out more beautiful after the surgeries than she had been before the fire. The gorgeous redhead went on to fall in love and marry her plastic surgeon.
I’d imagine he was good with his hands.